Talk It Out

Bosco assumes he'll have to tell her. Soon, or someday, or maybe -- if he has his way -- not at all.

But he assumes he'll actually have to tell her. He doesn't want to, because there are certain things he'd like to not subject to the scrutiny his partner seems to delight in giving his life.

Sometimes it's kinda nice. Knowing there's someone who cares about all the annoying, embarrassing, private details. But this is too much to tell her, too much to risk her saying it's over the line.

Funny thing, that -- not wanting to cross over the line and say too much. Normally he'll say anything he likes. Be just as crude and graphic as he wants to be, and all he'll get in return is an eye roll or a friendly insult.

But there's always been lines he won't cross over. It's just that they're hidden behind all the things he does say. It's getting harder and harder not to say anything, though, and he knows that before he really wants to, he'll have to say something.

Bosco watches Faith walk towards the car, bag in hand. Sandwiches and fries and two cups of coffee balanced one on top of each other. He knows that one sandwich will be plain, no condiments or anything except a slice of tomato. The other will be loaded down with everything available at the counter.

He also knows that whichever one he picks, she'll eat the other without actually complaining, and that halfway through lunch one of them will switch their sandwiches. He knows that whatever topic of conversation he decides on when she gets in the car, they'll be arguing about it within ten minutes. He knows that if he doesn't pick something, they'll talk about Faith's family.

But for all the things he knows, he doesn't know what she'll do if he looks over and says:

"Faith, I've got a boyfriend."

It'd keep the conversation interesting, that's for sure.

And it might just keep him from having to say "I'm in love."